the stirring of you in my arms
by radialarch
Summary: Bucky comes to Steve, and then he comes home. / Post-CA:TWS, Steve/Bucky.


**Title**: the stirring of you in my arms  
><strong>Pairings<strong>: Steve/Bucky  
><strong>Rating<strong>: M  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: none  
><strong>Spoilers<strong>: none  
><strong>Wordcount<strong>: 2142

**Summary**: Bucky comes to Steve, and then he comes home.

* * *

><p>The first time is in Berlin, in a hostel. He breaks the window; Steve wakes up and picks up his shield, nearly in the same instant, before he realizes the intruder's not a stranger.<p>

"Bucky?" he says, at the silhouette with the metal arm. "Bucky."

"Shh," Bucky says. He takes two steps and then he's right there, close enough for Steve to touch.

Steve doesn't move. Bucky raises his right arm, cups Steve's jaw with a warm, careful hand. Steve can hear the sound of Bucky's harsh breaths, see the way his shoulders rise and fall in the gleam of the streetlight.

He stays perfectly still as Bucky's thumb traces over the shape of his mouth.

For a second, Steve is sure that Bucky's going to kiss him. It's almost disappointing when Bucky steps back instead.

"Bucky," he says again, and he doesn't mean to plead but it comes out that way.

Bucky shudders; turns, and then he's gone.

Steve touches his mouth with his own hand and trembles, at how careful Bucky had been.

—

When Peggy kissed him, it had been fleeting, just a light press of her mouth against his. He'd licked his lips afterwards and could taste a faint hint of lipstick, so unfamiliar on his skin.

Natasha was more direct, forceful. She cupped his head and angled it to her liking, and her tongue pressed into his mouth, insistent. She kissed like it was a war she was confident of winning.

Steve's spent a lifetime refusing to think about kissing Bucky, because it wasn't allowed, and once he starts it's like he's making up for the lost time. He imagines Bucky breathing into his own mouth; he thinks about Bucky's teeth pressing into his lip, hard enough to draw blood, and can nearly taste it.

—

He gets into the habit of leaving his windows open.

No one takes him up on the invitation, not for two months. Then it's a night in Paris when it's too hot for Steve to keep his shirt, and he's nearly fallen asleep when someone rolls through the window.

Bucky spends a long time standing there, just standing. He stays very still, more like machine than man, and the only way Steve knows he's alive is because he's breathing.

Bucky looks at him, and Steve doesn't know what he can give Bucky but he'll let Bucky look as long as he needs. He doesn't say anything, pretends he's asleep. He lets his breathing stay soft, steady, and watches from underneath his eyelashes.

When Bucky finally comes forward, he does in quick motions. He climbs onto the bed, lowers his weight onto Steve's thighs, and Steve can't pretend to be sleeping any longer.

"Good to see you too, Buck," he says, in more of a rasp than anything.

Bucky doesn't speak, just smooths the palm of his right hand down onto Steve's sternum. His breath quickens at the touch, and Steve realizes Bucky can feel that — can feel the rise and fall of his chest, the rapid thumps of his heart.

"I missed you," Steve says, quiet. He says it without meaning to say it; he doesn't know why he does, except that it's true. It's been true since 1944, a snowy hell in the Alps, and some days it hurts less than others but his chest aches now, when Bucky's so near he could touch him. Is touching him.

He hears Bucky draw a breath. He says, "Don't." Like Steve could choose. Like Steve would, if he ever had the choice.

"Sorry," Steve says.

Bucky makes an impatient sound and leans forward. Bucky's hand — the metal hand — is at Steve's throat, his thumb over the carotid and palm cool against Steve's skin. "I could," he says, very low.

Steve doesn't let his breathing speed up. He swallows, and he can feel how the line of his throat presses into the unyielding metal.

He says, "I know."

The fight seems to go out of Bucky. He puts his hands on Steve's shoulders and lowers himself down, gently, until his forehead touches Steve's own. Bucky's hair is still long, and it sweeps against Steve's ears.

"Why?" Bucky asks.

Steve doesn't know how to answer that. He can't quite put into words the pull he feels, only that it's been there a very long time: when they'd met for the first time, Bucky offering Steve a hand up from the ground; when Bucky had patched him up and defended him, time and time again.

Steve says, helplessly, "Because it's you."

Bucky stiffens and jerks up; his weight lifts from Steve's numb legs. He's gone with a thump on the floor, and Steve doesn't say _don't go_, not only because it'd be useless, but because he doesn't want to hear how broken it will sound.

—

Steve had been fifteen when he first looked at the bones of Bucky's wrists and nearly staggered with want. They'd been coming home from a dance, Bucky a little punch drunk and with his arm thrown over Steve's shoulders. Steve had looked down, at the way Bucky's hand was laid over the fabric of his jacket. He imagined tilting his head down to press his mouth to that hand, so vividly his mouth went dry.

But Bucky went with girls and talked about kissing them late at night; and even if he hadn't, it would still have been wrong. So Steve buried the want deep in his chest and tried not to let it choke him, when he looked at Bucky for too long.

In the new millennium they said it was all right, to want like that. It didn't make Steve feel any cleaner when he was in the shower, one hand braced against the slick wall and the other on himself, swallowing back Bucky's name as if that'd make it any less real.

—

In Rome Bucky tumbles through the window and comes straight to the bed, like he's made up his mind. He climbs on top of the covers; the cool cotton sheet lies between them but Steve can still feel the heat of Bucky's body.

"I've been a lot of things," Bucky says, one precise word at a time. "You don't know."

Steve touches Bucky on the shoulder, the rounded plates of metal. Bucky flinches but doesn't pull back, watching him warily.

"I don't have to," Steve says, quiet. "I know you."

"How can you—" Bucky leans up on one elbow, biting his lip. "Why are you—"

And it's too much, Bucky nearly on top of him, his thighs pressed against Steve's thighs and his face so close. It's too dark to tell but Steve can imagine the red of Bucky's mouth, and it makes his breath catch. So Steve raises himself up, slowly — brings a hand up to rest at the back of Bucky's neck and pulls him in until he's kissing him.

It's not long. Bucky lets out a surprised breath into Steve's mouth and Steve could be happy with that one memory for the rest of his life. He lets Bucky go, falls back on his pillow. closes his eyes and says, "That's why."

He's expecting Bucky to leave. He doesn't expect Bucky to kiss him again.

Bucky kisses him desperately, this time, with his mouth open and his tongue sliding across Steve's lips. Their teeth click together and Bucky's hands are on Steve; they are trembling but they are still strong enough to hold Steve up.

"Bucky," Steve murmurs into Bucky's mouth.

Bucky pulls back. He looks at Steve for a long time.

"Sorry," he says, before he leaves. The crumpled sheets are the only sign he's been here at all.

Steve nearly laughs. Bucky's not the one who should be saying sorry.

—

He plays a game with himself sometimes. Thinks about all the decisions he made, the ones that led to Bucky, screaming, falling from view.

If he'd made Bucky go back to the States after Zola, like he should have. If he hadn't been selfish enough to drag Bucky, tired and injured, through fire and danger all over again.

If he'd never taken the assignment. If he'd been smarter, if he'd realized that the Germans' new weapons weren't something the commandos could handle.

If he'd never let Bucky pick up his shield.

If he'd been just a little faster, just a little stronger, enough to grasp Bucky's hand.

But in the end it always comes down to this: he never should have let Bucky fall alone. He should have gone after him — let the wind carry him to Bucky's body, wrapped his own body around him.

Maybe then Bucky would have lived. Maybe then Bucky wouldn't have had to suffer the Red Room; wouldn't have had to live through hell where even his mind wasn't his own.

Letting the train carry him away from Bucky is the worst thing Steve's ever done.

—

Bucky comes to him in London covered in blood and dirt. Steve can smell the familiar rusty tang of it even before he flicks on the light.

"Jesus." The word comes out of him in a rush. There's a slowly dripping cut across Bucky's cheek and his clothes are sticky with blood. "Bucky."

"It's okay," Bucky says. He's blinking against the light and staggering slightly.

"We gotta get you cleaned up," Steve says.

Bucky doesn't protest when Steve takes him by the elbow and leads him to the bathroom. His boots leave dark tracks on the tile but his feet are clean when he slides them out.

"Not mine," he explains, even as he peels his shirt off. The fabric sticks a little to him but underneath there's just pale skin, thank god.

"You're taking a shower anyway," Steve says, letting out a relieved breath.

Bucky shrugs and steps into the shower stall. Steve looks away when Bucky reaches for his pants, flushing a little. He waits to hear the water turn on before clearing his throat. "Okay," he says.

Then Bucky's grabbing his upper arm and pulling him into the shower with him.

The water is hot on his head, his shoulders. It soaks into his T-shirt quickly, but Steve doesn't really care. He blinks water out of his eyes and looks at Bucky, standing there with him, his hand still on Steve's arm.

"Steve," Bucky says, nodding, and hearing his name in Bucky's voice makes Steve's voice catch in his throat, makes him draw closer, a planet to the sun.

"Yeah," Steve says. "Yeah, it is."

He doesn't know which of them kisses the other first; all he knows is that they're kissing, Bucky's mouth on his mouth and Bucky's hands on his body.

Bucky makes a soft noise in his throat when Steve touches him, strokes against his sides and shoulders, flesh and metal both. He sounds surprised and it nearly makes Steve buckle at the knees, that sound.

"I'm sorry," Steve whispers into Bucky's mouth, along the curve of his jaw, against the expanse of his throat. "I never should've left you — I should've gone with you—"

Bucky tilts his head at him. "No," he says, "no, you're—Steve—you can't." He finds Steve's mouth again with soft little licks. "Don't."

And it's not enough — maybe nothing will ever be enough — but Bucky's voice and the warmth of the water make the knot in his chest loosen, slightly; so he kisses Bucky like it's the only thing that matters, clinging to him long after the water goes cold.

In the morning, Bucky is gone.

—

Steve's back in Brooklyn when Bucky visits again. Steve can hear him climb up the fire escape, and is sitting up when Bucky clambers onto the balcony.

"Hi," he says, soft and suddenly a little shy.

Bucky lets out a little laugh, sounding like his old self; and then he comes for him, mouth hot and hungry. He kisses Steve and presses him down onto the bed, kisses him slow and sweet with his hand cradling the back of Steve's head. He licks at Steve's lower lip, pulls it between his teeth, and Steve's breaths are coming short and he is hard against Bucky's hip.

"Do you—" Bucky says, plucking at the waistband of Steve's boxers.

"Please," Steve says, "Bucky, please," and Bucky slips his hand down, wraps his fingers around Steve.

It's Bucky's left hand, the one made of metal, but it's been warmed by Steve's body heat and it slicks wetly over Steve's cock; Steve jerks up into Bucky's grasp, his eyes sliding closed, and he bites down on his tongue as he comes, so all that comes out of his mouth is a cracked noise.

"Shh," Bucky says, "you're okay. We're okay." He's stroking Steve's hair as he says it. "We are, yeah?"

"Yeah, Buck," Steve says, blinking hard. He looks at Bucky, whose mouth's turned down anxiously. "We're okay."


End file.
